TITLE: Synchronicity I
SPOILER STATEMENT: Millennium
RATING: PG, but only because it can't *possibly* be G.
CONTENT STATEMENT: ScullyAngst. MSR/UST
CLASSIFICATION: VRA
SUMMARY: Scully muses on the damage done to her belief system by her work on
the X-Files.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is not songfic, in the conventional sense. Nobody listens
to the radio, and you will not find song lyrics broken out between the
paragraphs. But it is inspired or informed or something like that by the song
of the same title by The Police, and if you're familiar with that song, you may
hear echoes of it here and there. Hopefully, you'll find it interesting even if
you *haven't* heard the song. Is it a successful experiment? You tell me.
THANKS: To Paulette, Robbie, Sharon & Shawne
Synchronicity I
by Brandon D. Ray
There was a time when she lived in the real world. The world where hard work
was rewarded, wrongdoing was punished and flowers grew in the sunlight. The
world where she never had to know that time could feel like a heartbeat, and
where she didn't have to worry that any one breath might be her last. The world
where life proceeded at a steady, even flow, and synchronicity was just an
abstract concept; one of many ideas she did not believe in.
She still doesn't believe in most of those things, even now. She still doesn't
believe in werewolves or vampires; she still does not believe in ghoulies and
ghosties and long-leggety beasties, and things that go bump in the night. But
this past year has been a hard one, and there are some things she can no longer
disavow.
Yes, this past year has been difficult, she thinks. Much of the time she's felt
as if she's been asleep, or in a trance. As if the controls for her life have
been taken from her, leaving her no alternative but to follow the choreography
of this dream dance she now finds herself in the middle of. As if someone else
is pulling the strings.
Such as today, for example. Today is a Saturday, a cold Saturday early in
January. She's spent much of the morning working on the files from their most
recent case -- the one that involved the Millennium Group's attempt to bring
about the end of the world. Their reports have actually been complete for
several days, now, and the case is closed, but she brought the files home with
her anyway.
She's been looking for something here; something personal in this sea of
Bureau-mandated paper. Some connecting principle, perhaps. A Rosetta Stone
that will allow her to relate her understanding of the natural world and her
religious beliefs to the things she saw with her own two eyes. An explanation
for how dead men could have been brought back to life, and also why she felt
such a visceral fear as the seconds ticked down towards midnight on New Year's
Eve.
But whatever it is she's been looking for, she hasn't found it. Not yet. The
link she wants -- the link she must have -- remains invisible; imperceptible.
Just out of sight. But never really out of mind.
And so she's given up, at least for today, and now she's in her car and driving.
She will return to this subject, of course. She will continue to address the
inexpressible need she feels. A need that began growing in her heart within
days of her assignment to the X-Files, all those years ago, and which now has
all but consumed her.
She comes to a stop light, and eases the car to a halt -- and despite her best
intentions, she considers the matter for one more moment. Perhaps she's taking
the wrong track, she thinks, not for the first time. As always, the very notion
causes a shiver of anxiety in the pit of her stomach, but at least now, when
she's alone, she's willing to contemplate the possibility.
She's known for a long time -- as far back as high school -- that science is not
insusceptible to error. She's known for even longer that it can't answer every
question posed by man. Those two points have never been in doubt. But she's
always thought that she could at least use science as a tool for examining
nature, and now even that confidence has been shaken.
The light turns green, and she presses down on the gas pedal once again.
There's a causal connection there, she thinks distantly. The light changes
color, she feeds more fuel to the engine and the car moves forward. Cause. And
effect. Everything happens for a reason. This is a lesson she has learned both
from her study of science, and from the teachings of her Church.
The two differ in their interpretations of those words, of course. But where in
the past she has felt that they complemented each other, and filled each other's
gaps, she now fears that the rigidity of the Church's dogma and the cool,
inflexible logic of the laboratory serve only to reinforce their mutual blind
spots.
None of which really addresses the problems she's been wrestling with; the
problems of her own intellectual and emotional vulnerability. Layer by layer,
her cloak of assurance and certitude has been stripped away, until now she
stands naked before her fears. Nothing remains between her and this new world
she now inhabits. Nothing protects her or keeps her warm. Nothing is
invincible; not anymore.
She turns a corner, almost at random, and finds herself approaching one of the
bridges that leads across the river to Alexandria. She smiles slightly, as she
realizes where this road will take her. There is *one* certainty remaining to
her, after all: her partnership with Mulder. Through it all, he's been her
constant, her touchstone, just as she has been his. There's no point in even
trying to deny that; not after all they've been through together.
Even when they're angry with each other, even when they're at odds, that
connection is still there, and now it's her only remaining lifeline. She feels
that if they can just continue to share this nightmare, as dark and horrifying
as it may be, somehow they will be able to dream together, as well. Somehow,
they will be able to capture the spirit of the world -- or at least, their own
small corner of it.
On an impulse, she pulls the car to a halt, halfway across the bridge, oblivious
to the annoyance and inconvenience she's causing the other drivers. It occurs
to her that she should be bothered by her codependence with Mulder, but she is
not. She feels that she's finally found her other half, and the kiss he gave
her in the hospital waiting room last weekend has only provided the first
physical confirmation of something she has known to be true, on some level, for
years.
That kiss was so typical of their relationship, she thinks, as she climbs out of
her car and walks to the rail so she can look down at the water. So typical,
and so perfect. As always, they acted without speaking, the thought becoming
the deed almost before she could grasp what was happening. The touch of his
lips on hers seemed to provide a missing link that night, and she can't escape
the eerie feeling of synchronicity she felt when she turned towards him, and saw
her own emotions unmistakably reflected in his eyes.
Of course, they know each other, she rationalizes. She knows him, and he knows
her. There was nothing extrasensory going on that night, she thinks firmly, as
the water continues to rush by, far below. It was simply a case of two friends
who have been reaching towards each other for a long time, and who finally made
contact. There's nothing magic there; nothing mysterious.
She does not have to believe in synchronicity to believe in this.
So why is she standing here on the middle of this bridge, she wonders, halfway
to his home, late on a Saturday afternoon in January? It's perfectly
understandable that she might want to see him; the question is, why has she
stopped *halfway*? Is she that afraid of taking the next step? She knows that
he will respect her desire for deliberation; she even thinks she knows that he's
comfortable with taking things slowly, himself. After more than six years of
slow, mutual seduction, they're both obviously content with a gradual approach.
The world didn't end when he kissed her; would it really be so terribly risky to
complete the drive, and knock on his door? Would the stars fall if she pulled
out her phone and called him, and asked if he'd like to go out and do something
with her? They wouldn't have to call it a date, after all. Not unless they
both wanted to. Although it would not surprise her at all if they *did* both
want to; not the way things have been going of late.
She glances down at the river again, still undecided. It looks so deep and so
wide, and she takes comfort in that. She's always taken comfort in the water,
especially running water. A legacy of her father, of course, and the
fascination for the sea that he transmitted to all his children. Now she stands
on a bridge, partway between her home and Mulder's, allowing the smooth flow of
the river to calm her.
Standing here watching the water seems like the right thing to do. She almost
feels as if she's waiting for ... something. She doesn't understand why she
feels this way, or what she could be waiting for, but that doesn't seem to be
important. She will know when she knows, she decides. For now, for the moment,
she feels more relaxed and at ease than she has in a long time. She feels happy
and content, as if a decision has been made. As if a switch has been flicked
....
And then she looks up from the water, and she sees him standing there, a glint
of humor in his eyes and a slight smile on his face. She wonders how long he's
been there, watching her watch the water, but then she's stepping into his
embrace, and she finds that she doesn't care anymore.
Something brought them here, she thinks happily -- or if not, if this is an
effect that has no cause, then so be it. She can put her science on hold, at
least in this, at least for now. Her other problems are still there, and she
still needs to address them, but at least she has this one certainty. And
without speaking, she turns her face up to his, and he bends down towards her
even as she's stretching up to meet him.
Their lips touch.
Synchronicity.
Fini